Siren's Song
Page 34
“Are they so upset because they’re so ugly?”
“Some believe so.”
The mum clicks her tongue and sets down the mugs of tea. “Tell it to them right or not at all, ’enry.”
He grins, then takes a swig of the steaming green liquid. “I am tellin’ it right. The travellers say the bolcranes used to be beautiful beings. But they became powerful and twisted, so their souls turned from light to dark, and then so did their bodies. Although . . .” He leans down to the children. “I’ve heard if you listen close to the hissing breath of the beasts, you can still hear their voices. Asking for more power an’ crying in grief at their cursed state.” He sits back and takes another sip. “Or maybe it’s hateful tears for what they’ve become.”
The boy child’s eyes widen larger than hornet eggs. “Was it the Creator who cursed them?”
“Your mum believes so.” Papa looks up and winks at the woman, and is met with a biscuit in the face. He laughs and grabs it from where it dropped. “Well, at least the heathens from Cashlin do. They believe there was a great fallin’ out, and the Creator banned the monsters from the Valley of Origin and forced them into Litchfell Forest to live. That’s why they despise us Faelenians so much.”
The father breaks the biscuit and passes pieces to the children. “But it’s not true. The ancient spindle trees, which have watched the beasts roam and devour, claim it was the beasts who rejected the Creator. That their craving for more power was insatiable, and thus they cursed themselves.”
“Is that why they have to live in Litchfell now?” the girl asks around a mouthful of bread.
After pulling the girl onto his lap, Papa dusts the crumbs off her cheek. “That, or they’ve simply forgotten how to live outside of it.”
“But what were the beautiful beings before they turned to bolcranes?”
“The strongest Uathúils,” the father murmurs.
“Elementals.”
A rattle of shutters from the thrashing storm makes both children jump and the room falls quiet, until a moment later when the little girl looks up into her father’s face.
“When they figure out how to be free of the forest, will they come for us then?” she asks.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
PHOTO BY SARAH KATHLEEN PHOTOGRAPHY
MARY WEBER IS A RIDICULOUSLY uncoordinated girl plotting to take over make-believe worlds through books, handstands, and imaginary throwing knives. In her spare time, she feeds unicorns, sings ’80s hairband songs to her three muggle children, and ogles her husband, who looks strikingly like Wolverine. They live in California, which is perfect for stalking LA bands, Joss Whedon, and the ocean.
Visit Mary online at maryweber.com
Facebook: marychristineweber
Twitter: @mchristineweber
Instagram: maryweberauthor